Three's A Crowd
by Joodiff
Summary: When Grace unwittingly catches Boyd entertaining a lady-friend in his office one evening a lot of uncomfortable truths begin to reveal themselves... T for language etc. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

_This story was suggested by Never Stop Believing in Love who also supplied the brief. Hopefully it delivers. ;)_

* * *

**Three's A Crowd**

by Joodiff

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Boyd's silver Lexus is still firmly parked in its accustomed space when Grace reluctantly returns to headquarters. According to the small dashboard clock in her own car it's barely seven o'clock, and even though the Met's Cold Case Unit is in one of its rare and very welcome periods of hiatus between active investigations it's still far too early to realistically expect him to have left the building even if he has – as the conspicuous lack of her other colleagues' cars suggests – peremptorily dismissed the rest of the team for the night. In truth, even Grace wouldn't be back here if she hadn't earlier forgotten to collect the bulging case-file she intends to spend an hour or two studying in the peace and quiet of her own home. In a quiet sort of way, however, she's far from displeased to know that the office opposite hers won't be dark and empty when she reaches the bottom of the stairs that lead into the unit's basement lair. If nothing else, it will give them a welcome opportunity to share a few relaxed and uninterrupted minutes in each other's company and she knows Boyd will be genuinely pleased to hear first-hand just how well Kevin Keogh seems to be recovering from his terrible ordeal.

Locking her car, Grace heads quickly inside, nodding politely to the uniformed desk sergeant as she heads past the general offices towards the grimly utilitarian corridor that was probably never originally designed for regular traffic. The building's location is good, as are the extensive facilities it offers, but as a late-comer the CCU certainly drew the short straw in terms of accommodation. Not for them the bright, airy, open-plan offices of CID or the Fraud Squad. The CCU's grudgingly-allocated territory might occupy a reasonable amount of square footage, but it's hardly luxurious. Still, she strongly suspects Boyd rather likes the grim idiosyncrasy of their current operational base – but if he does, he's just about the only one. Very little natural light ever finds its way into their brutally functional workspace and not one of them – not even Boyd himself – has a view of the outside world. Then, she muses, perhaps the dark claustrophobia suits the insular, unconventional nature of the unit.

Pushing through the heavy double doors at the foot of the stairs, Grace immediately notices that although the lights are blazing in Boyd's office the vertical privacy blinds are closed. Not exactly unusual, particularly in the evenings when he's working alone with a bottle of Scotch on his desk and Mahler playing gloomily in the background. Heading straight into her own office, she plucks the rogue file off her desk and slips it into her large shoulder bag. Later, once she has eaten and finished a few necessary domestic cores, she will curl up on the sofa with a glass or two of red wine and fully immerse herself in the dispassionate minutiae of the three unsolved and apparently linked Dulwich murders that everyone's quietly betting Boyd will arbitrarily decide to reinvestigate in the very near future. Knowing him as well as she does, and having seen the relevant paperwork stealthily moving closer and closer to the top of his in-tray, Grace will be very surprised if he doesn't call a meeting to discuss the unresolved case within the next week or two.

Satisfied that she now has everything she needs, she quietly leaves her office and heads towards his partially open door, vague ideas of boldly suggesting they embrace the past and go out for a quick drink ghosting through her mind. As expected, she can hear music playing softly, though it doesn't sound like Mahler. More like Shostakovich. Boyd's eclectic musical taste never ceases to amuse and bewilder her – gloomy classical pieces for the office, and very often the angry power of towering 'sixties and 'seventies rock luminaries for the car. The apparent disparity might be something to do with the sheer adrenaline rush of being out on the ground doing the job he loves versus the deskbound monotony of bureaucracy and administrative paperwork. Or something. One day she might take a psychologist's view on the matter.

He is not alone.

That's the first thing that registers as Grace instinctively freezes in the doorway.

Definitely not alone. Boyd's female companion is tall, slim and extremely attractive. Brunette. Very familiar, too. Laura Miller, one of several CPS barristers who have worked closely with the CCU over the last few years. What on earth she's doing in Boyd's office after-hours should be a moot question. But it's not. In fact, it's an extremely naïve question, because what she's doing is kissing him. Or being kissed _by_ him – Grace isn't entirely sure which, but the technicalities are largely immaterial. Whoever's responsible for taking the initiative, the end result seems to be wholly consensual, given that Laura's slender fingers are wound tightly in his thick silvery hair and Boyd's hands have a firm and distinctly possessive grip on her slender waist.

The surprise – shock – doesn't exactly wear off, it's merely supplanted by acute embarrassment. Partly because accidentally walking in on anyone, let alone a good friend and colleague, involved in such an intimate clinch would be uncomfortable at best, and partly because in their few remaining moments of obliviousness the pair are so utterly focused on each other that Grace is uncomfortably and acutely cognisant of the raw, sensual power of the intense erotic charge in the room. She swallows hard, one hand still resting frozen on the wooden doorframe.

The best and most obvious thing to do is retreat swiftly and silently. But it's too late. Before she can move, Laura opens her eyes, spots her caught unmoving in the doorway and instantly pulls away from Boyd. His head snaps round in bewildered reaction and for a moment Grace finds herself pinioned by a baleful and more than slightly startled dark gaze. They stare wordlessly – guiltily – at each other for what must only be a split second or two but feels like an eternity. It is Laura who says shrilly, "Doctor Foley…"

The words break the hypnotic moment of paralysed indecision. Quickly and far too brightly Grace says, "Sorry. I didn't realise…"

Boyd clears his throat loudly. The gruffness of his tone more than adequately conveys his acute discomfort. "Grace…"

"Sorry… I just stopped by to pick up the Grebe Road file," she supplies hurriedly. "I thought it would be worth taking a look at if you're considering… I've just been to see Kevin. Kevin Keogh? He's doing extremely well. I didn't mean to… I didn't know you were… in a meeting."

Even to Grace her rapidly-delivered words sound forced and painfully inane. It's very definitely time to leave.

-oOo-

"Well," Laura says in a wry tone moments after the outer doors clatter loudly shut, "that was excruciating."

Not the first word to come into his head, but not a bad description, all things considered. Boyd is not used to feeling so flustered. So off-balance. He's too old for it, too experienced for it. Too thoroughly jaded for it. But he finds himself caught by a strange and unusual indecisiveness. Visceral instinct tells him to quickly make his excuses and pursue his departing colleague – to what end he's not entirely sure – but common-sense tells him that to do so would be a very bad idea. For several reasons. One of which is coolly eying him with a palpable mixture of amusement and chagrin. Torn, Boyd hesitates. Predictably the one moment in which he could perhaps have been forgiven for choosing to pursue is immediately lost. He shakes his head resignedly. "Why do I have a feeling I won't ever be allowed to live this down?"

Laura laughs, hazel eyes sparkling softly. "Poor Peter. There goes your reputation."

"Stop it," he grumbles in response. "Trust me, my life is not going to be worth living tomorrow."

"Oh, I don't know…"

The smile Laura gives him is warm and impish and it instantly reminds him why he hasn't spent many nights sleeping alone just recently. He likes her, but more importantly, she inexplicably seems to like him, too. Perhaps the merciless piss-taking he fully expects to find himself on the receiving end of from his colleagues in the morning won't be so hard to bear. Maybe, in fact, Grace will keep the matter entirely to herself and it will only be _her_ smirks and knowing looks he will be forced to endure. Forever, no doubt.

Grace.

There was something in her expression, Boyd abruptly realises. Not just surprise and embarrassment. Something else. Something that seemed a little like… disappointment? Regret? Something that makes him feel –

"So," Laura says brightly, her voice cutting smoothly through his increasingly pensive thoughts, "how do you feel about taking me somewhere shockingly expensive for dinner?"

There's so much promise in those eyes; so much wonderful temptation. He thinks if he stares into them for too long he might never be able to tear his gaze away. Deliberately solemn, Boyd nods. "I might be persuaded."

But it takes a long time for the image of Grace standing stunned and stock-still in the doorway to fade from his mind.

-oOo-

Laura Miller. The more she thinks about it, the less surprised Grace actually finds she is. A bright, sparky and successful woman in her early forties, Laura is well-liked and highly respected not just by her co-workers in the CPS but by all the police officers she deals with on a daily basis – including Boyd, who as a rule has very little time for anyone who has absolutely no qualms about brusquely telling him exactly how he should be doing his job. In fact, by the time Grace is nearing the end of her third glass of wine, she is gloomily convinced that she should have seen the signs earlier. After all, it's no secret that Peter Boyd has a notable weakness for feisty, self-assured women. Particularly when they are single, attractive, wealthy – and seemingly completely unafraid to face him down despite his fearsome reputation for confrontational belligerence and hot-headedness.

It doesn't matter, Grace tells herself firmly. It definitely _shouldn't_ matter. It's nothing to do with her who Boyd chooses to share his private life with. He is, after all, just a colleague, a co-worker. True, he's a colleague who's slowly and surely become something a little more, but even so…

They may well have become unlikely friends, but she has to admit that they still don't socialise much outside working hours. Not really. A few evening and weekend telephone calls, usually entirely work-related. The occasional quick drink here and there, generally in the company of one or more of their teammates; an even more occasional quick meal. Circumstantial. After several years of close comradeship their lives beyond work are as separate and independent as they have ever been, regardless of what the inevitable rumour mill gleefully likes to imply.

Calmly pouring another glass, Grace can't help casting her mind back over the recent past, carefully searching for any clues she may have missed. Frustratingly, there simply aren't any. Boyd has simply been… Boyd. As capricious, infuriating and occasionally engaging as ever, his moods ever-changing just as always. Breezy and easy-going one moment, terse and argumentative the next. Predictably unpredictable. True, he was a little more sensitive and diplomatic than she might have actually expected regarding the unfortunate matter of Harry Taylor's true fate, but…

Deep in the back of her mind, her own voice abruptly echoes the relentless question that is still haunting her: _"What would have happened if he'd fired before you'd ducked?"_

"_I'd have been killed,"_ he'd calmly replied from the other side of the gloomy corridor, and Grace had known then what she still implicitly believes now: on that terrifying afternoon Boyd had taken a calculated risk when he confronted the shotgun-wielding Hoyle, apparently believing – or merely hoping – that his reactions were fast enough to save him if necessary, but perfectly prepared to accept the potentially fatal consequences if he was proved wrong.

_He was quite prepared to run the risk of dying to save me,_ Grace thinks now, staring blankly into the depths of her glass. _To save me… and to save Kevin._

Laura Miller. Younger, prettier, far more vivacious.

She frowns at the unexpected juxtaposition of her thoughts, not liking the edgy restlessness of the nagging suspicions beginning to form in all the hidden, secret places that she'd never willingly open up to anyone. It can't possibly be the case that she's unconsciously beginning to see him as potentially much more than a friend and colleague… can it?

-oOo-

Laura lives in the kind of sleek Docklands apartment that wouldn't be out-of-place featured in one of the glossy lifestyle magazines that have slowly started to appear in the CCU's offices since Stella's arrival. It's a nice place, modern and doubtless worth an absolute fortune, but it's the little balcony overlooking the river that really sells it to Boyd. It's a mild night, unseasonably so, and when he finds himself unable to sleep it's no hardship at all to stand bare-chested in the soft night breeze nursing a heavy tumbler of whiskey as he watches the hypnotically moving dark surface of the water below. Weary as he is, he doubts he will be getting much sleep before the sun starts to rise. Too much on his mind, too many things to think about; too many responsibilities to juggle.

He's sleeping with the wrong woman.

It's a startling and unwelcome thought, one that appears from nowhere and rapidly starts to embed itself in Boyd's mind despite his fierce and instinctive resistance.

But the look on Grace's face when she –

"Peter?" a quiet, sleepy voice inquires from behind him. "What on earth are you doing out here? It's gone one o'clock."

It dimly registers that there's far more concern than protest in her tone. He's discovering that there's something very… accepting… about Laura. She doesn't complain or condemn. When he unconsciously withdraws into himself and obstinately closes out the world beyond she simply shrugs her shoulders and leaves him alone to find his own way back to her in his own time. There's no incessant critique of his actions, his motivations, his methods. No attempts to analyse every move he makes, every thought he has, every single damn word he says.

She's _nothing_ like Grace.

Boyd wonders what will happen when he inevitably reaches the point when he is just so tired and so stressed that he loses his temper over some trivial, meaningless thing. Whether Laura will be quite so calm and accommodating then.

Belatedly realising some overt response is expected of him, he half-turns and offers her a hesitant smile. "Couldn't sleep."

Walking over to him, Laura puts her hands on his shoulders and feathers her fingers seductively across his bare skin. It's less stimulating than Boyd expects to find it, but the suggestive edge to her voice prickles down his spine as she says, "Come back to bed."

It's so tempting. So incredibly tempting. It would be so damned easy, too. _All_ of it would be so damned easy. Not like –

He shakes his head. "You know, I think I'm going to go home. I'm in court all day tomorrow and I really need some time in the morning to go through Carter's statement. You don't mind?"

It's a rhetorical question, of course. Laura may be smiling as she casually shakes her head, but she minds – and Boyd knows it.

-oOo-

Grace arrives to the kind of cheerful chaos that generally accompanies those rare mornings when Boyd is absent from headquarters. Things still get done on such mornings, but there's usually a lot more chatter, a lot more coffee and considerably more scurrilous gossip. It would be an ideal opportunity to impart what she witnessed the preceding night, and there's no doubt the news would be received – and quickly disseminated – with unholy glee, but for some reason she keeps the incident firmly to herself. If she actually cared to analyse why, she knows she would probably deduce that her reticence is more for her own benefit than for Boyd's, but she _doesn't_ care to examine it too closely. Any of it. He, like Laura Miller, is single – divorced – and is therefore entitled to do exactly as he wishes, see whoever he chooses. There's absolutely nothing more to be said on the matter.

She's jealous. Contemptibly jealous. It's something of a surprise and it's really not a good feeling, and consequently Grace is extremely glad that they are highly unlikely to see him back in the office until late afternoon, if at all. If she's very lucky she'll have left work entirely for the day before he finally puts in an appearance. It's only delaying the inevitable, but Grace is gambling that the more hours that pass before they come face to face with each other, the easier it will be. For both of them. She doesn't imagine Boyd is particularly keen to face her, either, given the situation. In many ways he's a very private sort of man, doesn't ever give much away about his life beyond work. The big things, maybe – his missing son and his spectacularly messy divorce – but not the little details, not the inconsequential if interesting scraps of his daily life. No-one in the unit, including her, really knows who he is or what he does when he's not playing the demanding role of notorious commander of the controversial Cold Case Unit.

It's been just the two of them for so long now, she reflects. Sparring partners enjoying a caustic, bantering relationship underscored by just a touch of deliberately arch flirtation. There have been women, Grace knows that, but they have been peripheral, faceless shadows, easy to ignore. Part of the enigmatic life Boyd keeps so determinedly separate from work.

Laura Miller is not so easy to ignore.

And it is Laura Miller's voice that says quietly, "Doctor Foley…?"

Seated behind her desk, her thoughts a long, long way from the papers spread out in front of her, Grace looks up with a startled frown. "Ms Miller…"

The younger woman smiles uncertainly. "Hi."

"He's not here," Grace says automatically, and mentally kicks herself for voicing the words that so easily betray her immediate assumption.

"No, I know," Laura replies. "I'm actually here to see DI Jordan about the Saunders case, but since I'm a little early, I thought… Look, can we have a quick chat?"

It's the very last idea Grace wants to entertain, but she finds herself nodding despite herself. "Of course. Come in and shut the door."

Laura does so, hesitantly settling into the comfortable chair adjacent to the desk. "I realise this is a bit of an imposition, Doctor, but…"

"Grace," she says abruptly. "We're not terribly formal down here in the bunker."

"Laura," the other woman supplies, her tone slightly wry. "God, this is all rather embarrassing, isn't it? I think I should apologise for last night. It wasn't exactly professional behaviour. We just thought… Well, you know."

Against all her principles, Grace actually feels a little sorry for her. Dismissively, she says, "It was late. Everyone had gone home; I only popped back to collect something."

"Still… In the office. It doesn't look terribly good, does it? I'm really not that sort of woman. Not usually."

The really irritating thing is that Grace believes her. She's never heard a bad word spoken about Laura, not professionally or personally. She doesn't want to warm to her… but somehow she's beginning to. Carefully, she suggests, "I think it's one of those things best quietly forgotten about, don't you?"

Laura looks visibly relieved. "Thank you. I really don't know who was more mortified – me or Peter."

_Peter…_ The casual, intimate use of his first name grates across Grace's nerves, but she forces a polite smile. "As I said, best forgotten."

"Thank you," Laura says again, her sincerity obvious. "I don't think it would be entirely… prudent… for it to become common knowledge that we've been… seeing each other. There are people who might suggest a conflict of interest where none exists."

"I understand."

Laura leans forward slightly as if to get up to leave, but then she pauses. Looking straight at Grace, she says, "This probably isn't very appropriate either, but… well, you've known him a long time, haven't you?"

She nods wryly. "That's one way of looking at it. Though not particularly well before he asked me to join the unit, admittedly."

"But you understand him? You know what makes him tick?" Laura presses.

Grace feels herself frown. Sensing caution is definitely required, she shrugs slightly. "Sometimes I don't think even Boyd knows what makes Boyd tick."

The other woman nods, her expression suddenly contemplative. For a moment she says nothing, then, "He has an appalling reputation, everyone knows that, but when you take the trouble to get to know him… Well, he's a nice guy underneath it all, isn't he? Very gentle. Kind."

It's an effort not to look faintly sceptical. Yet, however implausible the description sounds spoken aloud, Grace knows there is absolute truth in Laura's words. Knows immediately that somehow the other woman has managed to find a chink in Boyd's impressive defensive armour. She looks down for a moment, not sure what to say, and eventually offers, "He has his moments."

"I like him, Grace," Laura says intensely, and it sounds like a firm declaration of something. "I like him a lot, and I think he likes me, but… Oh, I don't know. One moment he can be charm itself, the next he can be so… distant. Perhaps I'm just imagining it, but sometimes it's as if he's suddenly somewhere else entirely."

Grace does not want to know. She's fairly sure she does not want to know. A little vaguely, she offers, "Inconsistency is the nature of the beast, I'm afraid."

"I think I'm beginning to realise he's not quite as interested in considering the long-term as I was naively imagining he might be," Laura says in a quiet, rueful tone. She sighs, a sharp, abrupt exhalation of breath. "I'm sorry. This is totally unprofessional of me. I'm quite sure you don't want to hear any of this."

Laura's right – Grace doesn't want to hear it. But without knowing why she grudgingly says, "If there's one thing I know about Boyd, it's that he hates discussing this sort of thing almost as much as he hates being backed into a corner. Don't push him, Laura. Leave him to work out what he wants in his own time, that's my advice, for what it's worth."

-oOo-

Boyd has always been a highly goal-orientated sort of man. He sets his sights on something and he focuses intently on the target until he achieves whatever it is he intends. Coupled with natural intuition, tenacity and drive it makes him a very good detective. He simply doesn't know how to shrug his shoulders and give up, and he is not easily distracted. Women, work, it's all the same to Boyd. He decides what he wants and he generally gets it in the end, regardless of any obstacles in his way. He is single-minded and obstinate and certainly not used to finding himself vacillating. Which is exactly what he's doing as he impatiently drives towards the CCU's headquarters through the unforgiving late-afternoon traffic that chokes the city's main arteries. Vacillating and trying hard not to think about all the things that could do so much to upset the tenuous stability of his life.

Deliberately, he forces his thoughts in the direction of Laura Miller, but the strategy backfires spectacularly as he finds himself contemplating what's missing between them. There's a lot of very basic chemistry, a very real and potent sexual magnetism, and they get on well enough, but somehow despite their apparent compatibility on several important levels there's no real… connection. That's it, he thinks, ironically pleased to have identified the problem. The deep subconscious connection he has with… someone else… is completely absent. Whether that actually matters Boyd can't quite decide. There's a lot to be said for not rocking the metaphorical boat, for stubbornly holding onto something that seems to work and doesn't over-complicate his already stressful life. But…

He really doesn't want to think about the _buts_ of the situation.

He is sleeping with the wrong woman. That damned thought again. Yet the knowledge is stark and clear and as it bites home again it makes him grind his teeth irritably. He doesn't want to address the concept, doesn't want to think about it at all. Grace is his friend and colleague, nothing more. He's not attracted to her… is he? No, of course he's not. Grace is just Grace. Dependable, loyal, occasionally incredibly infuriating. Part of the everyday landscape of his life, just like Spencer or –

The impact is sudden and fierce, slewing the big Lexus round on the busy intersection and all Boyd's reflective thoughts are instantly lost as instinct takes over and he starts to wrestle with a steering wheel that suddenly seems to have become angrily alive in his hands. It's not a battle Boyd can win. There's too much impetus and the laws of physics are entirely in control of the situation. One front wheel hits the high kerb by the traffic lights and at the speed the car is travelling despite all his attempts to brake hard, that's more than enough to unbalance the high-sided vehicle. There is one single strange moment of calm as Boyd accepts the inevitable, a subsequent moment of intense sensory overload as several very bad things happen at once and then… nothing.

-oOo-

Even as she makes a determined bid for freedom there is part of Grace – a very masochistic part – that is half-tempted to return to her office and deliberately wait for Boyd's return. After all, it's not as if she can avoid him indefinitely and there's a lot to be said for choosing her own moment for the inevitable confrontation. But she hitches her bag more comfortably on her shoulder and determinedly keeps walking. It's definitely time to give herself a good shake and forget all about any strange, ridiculous notions of –

"Grace!" Spencer's voice bellows from the far end of the corridor behind her. Sullen and blunt he may often be, but he is not renowned for shouting and consequently the unusual phenomenon startles her. On this one occasion, however, the impressive volume he achieves comes close to rivalling Boyd for sheer deafening power.

Bewildered, she instantly stops and turns on her heel to face him. "Spence? What on earth…?"

He is bearing down on her quickly, his expression taut and grim. "Stella just took a call from Traffic – there's been an accident on Pimlico Road. Idiot in a Transit went straight through the lights."

Something clenches in the pit of her stomach. She doesn't need to ask, she already knows, just from the look on Spencer's face. But she hears her own voice question, "Boyd…?"

"Broadsided," Spencer confirms, finally coming to a halt in front of her. "He's been taken to the Chelsea and Westminster, that's all they could tell us."

She unconsciously tightens her grip on her bag. "Oh, God."

"I'm going straight there now – you want to come with me?"

"Yes," she says, nodding rapidly. "Yes, of course. Did they say…?"

Spencer shakes his head. "No. They only called us as a courtesy. Next-of-kin have yet to be informed."

"Pamela… Christ, I think she's in Canada at the moment…" Something else occurs to her. "Oh, no… Laura."

Her younger colleague looks bemused. "Laura…?"

"Doesn't matter," Grace assures him quickly. It's not her place to explain. "Let's get over there."

"Works for me." Starting into motion, Spencer seems to hesitate before saying, "He'll be fine, Grace, you'll see. That car of his is built like a bloody tank."

"I know." But as they head out of the building she is very aware of the visceral fear twisting nauseatingly in her gut.

-oOo-

"You're a lucky man, Mr Boyd," the doctor says gravely, an assessment Boyd isn't sure if he entirely agrees with. "Aside from a mild concussion and a few cuts and bruises, you seem to have escaped remarkably unscathed."

It is, of course, extremely good news, but it doesn't stop him growling in response. "Tell that to my damned spine."

She checks her notes. "Your x-rays look fine, but there may be some soft tissue damage associated with whiplash. Rest, Mr Boyd, and if things don't improve in a day or two, see your GP."

All things considered, after the ambulance and the sirens and the frightening stampede of concerned medical personnel on arrival at the hospital it's a considerable anti-climax. Bruised, battered and unsurprisingly bad-tempered, Boyd reaches for his crumpled, blood-stained shirt. "So I'm free to go?"

"We could admit you overnight for observation, but – "

"No."

"That's what I thought. Is there someone at home to keep an eye on you overnight?"

Boyd regards the woman balefully. "I'm sure I can arrange something."

A twitch of a knowing smile precedes, "Yes, I'm sure you can. Right, I'll leave you to sort yourself out. You'll need to be driven home. See Sister before you leave and she'll give you some anti-inflammatories and some painkillers."

"How's the van driver?" he asks bluntly.

The calm professional mask doesn't slip. "I believe he's still in theatre."

"Accident Investigation guys still here?"

"I'm not sure. There is a Detective Inspector Jordan asking after you in reception, I believe."

Not a great surprise. "Can you get someone to send him through?"

-oOo-

She sees him long before he sees her. Hardly surprising since the thin curtains obscuring his cubicle aren't completely closed and he is sitting on the edge of the bed, his back very firmly to the rest of the bay. The relief at seeing him so obviously… well, _alive_… is immense, the contrary resulting anger very real, and before she quite reaches him she sharply raps out, "For God's sake, Boyd… You frightened us half to death."

He turns stiffly at the waist and she doesn't miss the grimace of pain the action causes. "Grace."

"We got a call from Traffic. We thought… Well, you must know what we thought."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," he tells her, but although his tone is sarcastic there's a wariness about the way he looks at her that is as unsettling as it is uncharacteristic. She can't quite interpret it, isn't sure what to make of it. Perhaps it's just the result of the accident, a temporary dampening down of his normal indomitable brashness.

"It's not funny," she chides him as she steps into the small cubicle. "They wouldn't pass on any details. We had no idea what was going on, how badly hurt you were. Stella – "

"Grace," he interrupts, "leave it, hm? I'm too sore and tired for the lecture. It was just a routine traffic accident, nothing more. Hardly my fault."

She relents a little as she takes in the darkening bruises, the gashed temple and the tiny glass cuts that fleck his skin. His shirt is unbuttoned and hanging open. She wonders why she notices and then immediately chastises herself for her naïveté. For an uncomfortable moment she is transfixed by the imagined sensation of his bare skin smooth and warm under her fingertips. It's far from a soothing thought, made even less so by the steady dark gaze firmly settled on her. Raw annoyance spikes again, less disturbing than the alternative. "You could have called us."

Again, he is sardonic. "I'm sorry. It didn't actually occur to me as I was being carried out of the ambulance."

"Oh, for heaven's _sake_."

There's a short, tight silence followed by, "Why are you so angry?"

Exasperated, she replies, "Why do you _think_?"

"I have no idea."

"You never do, do you, Boyd?" Grace snipes at him. She knows she's being unfair, but somehow… And then something else crosses her mind. "Where's Laura?"

His expression is momentarily blank. "Laura. Oh, fuck."

It's so typical of him. Incredulous, she says, "Oh, please don't tell me you haven't asked someone to contact her?"

"I didn't…" his voice trails off. It takes him a moment to try again. "It wasn't exactly the first thing on my mind."

"Dear Lord, you're a real piece of work, aren't you?"

Boyd glowers in response. "Give me a break, will you? And it's absolutely fuck-all to do with you."

For a moment Grace is almost tempted to slap him. Not as tempted as she is to turn and walk away from him. She does neither. She stares stonily at him. "You don't think she deserves to know that her… partner… has been in an accident?"

"'Partner'? Oh, come _on_…"

"How would you prefer me to describe her?"

He snorts. "I'd prefer you not to describe her at _all_. It's my private business, Grace."

"It stopped being your private business when you chose to 'entertain' her in your office." And there it is, the heart of the matter suddenly brutally exposed.

He looks oddly triumphant as he bites back, "I bloody _knew_ that's what this was really all about."

His perception stings, puts her on the defensive. "What's that supposed to mean?"

The answer is sharp and quick. "What's your problem, Grace? Are you jealous?"

-oOo-

Big mistake. Boyd knows it the moment the stupid, impulsive words leave his mouth. The accusation slams heavily into the empty space between them causing palpable shockwaves of tension. Her eyes narrow – never a good sign – and she perceptibly tightens her grip on her bag, knuckles bone white. Any other man would immediately attempt to rectify his mistake, but Boyd is not any other man. Bull-headed, he charges recklessly onwards with, "That's it, isn't it? You've found out I've been seeing Laura and you don't like it one little bit."

"Grow up, Boyd. I don't give a damn who you're seeing."

She's lying. He can see it in the suddenly flinty eyes, in the tense, defensive set of her shoulders. She's lying and he doesn't know how he feels about it. The glare coming his way is angry and unrelenting. Reminds him of so many bitter confrontations, so many times when they've pointlessly butted heads and achieved absolutely nothing. She is every bit as difficult and contrary as he is in her own way, Boyd is convinced of it. Their CCU colleagues might not agree, but it's rare for their colleagues to feel the lash of her tongue, the sting of her temper. And she does have a temper. Not as explosive as his, but every bit as fierce when it's unleashed.

She is not like Laura. She is not the easy option.

Boyd is not renowned for choosing the easy option. He sighs heavily, trying to release at least some of the rapidly-building frustration as calmly and safely as possible. "Grace – "

"I'll call her for you on the way out," she says, swiftly cutting across him. "I'm sure she'll want to pick you up and take you home. The doctors say you need someone to stay with you overnight."

"Don't." He's surprised by the vehemence of his tone. "Don't call her. Look, Grace – "

"I don't want to hear it, Boyd. Whatever it is, I really don't want to hear it." And she walks away.

_I'm sleeping with the wrong woman, Grace… Shit. Oh, shit._

-oOo-

He reminds her of Harry. The admission is grudging and painful, but she feels better for finally confronting it. He reminds her of Harry not because they are alike – they're not – but because she can see and feel the echoes of the past in the present. Harry Taylor, Peter Boyd. Past and present. And thanks to recent events the past is currently far too uncomfortably close to the present. That's the truth of it all. Grace is far more vulnerable than usual and somehow the bittersweet memories of Harry have become inextricably linked to Boyd. She's dangerously close to repeating the stupid mistakes of the past and all because –

"So how is he?" Spencer's voice inquires.

She blinks herself back into the present. "Oh, he's fine. Walking wounded and just as bad-tempered as you'd expect."

"Happy days. The van driver didn't make it. Looks like he had some kind of seizure at the wheel and lost control."

"Family?"

"Wife and two kiddies. Tragic. There but for the grace of God…"

She nods. "Quite."

Spencer is regarding her pensively. "You okay, Grace?"

"Mm," she replies. "Spence, if you want to go in and see him, I have a call to make."

"Sure." He walks away, winking at the prettiest of the nurses as he goes.

Grace hesitates, though, phone in hand. Boyd is right – it's not her place to interfere in his private life and it's not up to her to inform Laura of the situation. Meddling in his business really won't help anyone. He's an adult, responsible for making his own decisions, justifying his own actions. He's a colleague, yes, but perhaps she's been wrong all along and he's not any kind of personal friend. The thought is intentionally destructive and it hurts.

What is it about the wretched man? True, he's both conspicuously good-looking and oddly charismatic despite the polar extremes of his temperament, but Grace does not believe she is naïve enough or superficial enough to ignore the less attractive aspects of his character in favour of such largely inconsequential things. Yet she can't let go of the increasingly intrusive thoughts that force their way past the combined defences of age, experience and common-sense.

Why does it matter that she apparently doesn't occupy the same privileged position in his personal life as she does in his professional life?

Perhaps there's truth to be found in the selfish sentiments of childhood._ I don't want him, but you can't have him._

It's not that simple.

_I do want him._

But he wants someone else. Doesn't he?

Grace puts her phone back in her bag and she starts to walk again. Towards the exit.

-oOo-

"Well?" Boyd asks, his simmering temper only just contained. "Where the fuck is she?"

Spencer shrugs, expression faintly bemused as he looks round the big reception area. "Dunno. She just said she had a call to make. We came in my car, so she can't have gone far. Maybe she's just nipped to the Ladies?"

"Go and see."

The younger man looks incredulous. "Me?"

"You. Wave your warrant card around if you need to."

Spencer bridles perceptibly. "I'm not going into the women's toilets."

"Well get your phone out and _call_ her then. For God's sake, Spence, use your initiative. I'm tired and I'm in pain and I'm not standing around here all fucking night waiting for Grace-bloody-Foley to deign to turn up."

"Sir."

The sheer amount of sullen insubordination clear in the single word is palpable and twenty years ago Boyd would have clipped the younger man soundly round the ear for it. _And_ got away with it. But times have changed and he grudgingly settles for directing an icy glare at Spencer's back as he produces his phone and turns away to make the call. Again, Boyd's gaze sweeps the area for any sign of their missing colleague and finds none. Irritated, he glowers at an extremely intoxicated teenager with a badly lacerated hand. It doesn't help. Nothing much seems to help. Boyd is a man with a serious and unexpected problem and that's that.

"Sir?" Spencer says again a few moments later. "She's taken a cab."

"She's _what_?"

"She's gone. Said there wasn't any point in her hanging around here and getting in the way."

Temper rising, Boyd snaps his fingers and holds out his hand. "Fuck's bloody sake… Give me the damned phone."

"She's rung off."

He grinds his teeth. Glares pointlessly at Spencer. "Great. Just bloody great. I swear that woman's going to see me into an early grave. I've never met anyone so damned… infuriating."

Spencer doesn't look at all sympathetic. "She said to tell you it was up to you to sort things out. Said you'd know what she was talking about."

Boyd snorts derisively. "When have I _ever_ known what the hell she was talking about? I swear, Spence…" he doesn't finish the sentence. There's absolutely no point. "Right. Come on, then; let's get out of here."

"The doctors – "

"_Screw_ the doctors. You giving me a lift home or not?"

-oOo-

"Don't shoot the messenger, Grace," Spencer's voice says unhappily. "He wanted to be left on his own. What else could I do?"

"Nothing," she unwillingly admits. "Nothing at all. All right, don't worry, Spence, I'll deal with it."

The response is wry and heartfelt. "Good luck with that."

Ending the call she stares into mid-distance for a few moments, giving her thoughts a chance to settle. They don't, not really. She guesses Boyd won't have called Laura, and even if he has, he assuredly won't have mentioned his current… predicament. She knows he'd rather lick his wounds in magnificent solitude rather than submit himself to the inevitable fuss and disturbance generated by a worried woman utterly determined to look after him. It's the way he is, the way he's always been; stoical and self-sufficient. Stubborn. Which, given that she simply isn't prepared to do nothing, leaves her with a direct choice – call Laura herself and explain or…

Or get in her car, drive to Greenwich and then hammer obstinately on his front door until he can't bear it any longer and he grudgingly lets her in. Whereupon harsh words will be exchanged and she will wonder – yet again – why she bothers with him. But in the end Grace will get her own way; one way or another he won't be alone in the big house overnight and honour will be satisfied.

Circumstances have played straight into her hands. It's far from the ideal opportunity, but it is an opportunity.

An opportunity for what, exactly?

It's not going to happen. The epiphany, the ridiculous fairytale ending. Boyd is far too obtuse and besides, she is not in the habit of deliberately poaching another woman's man.

Harry was married.

Boyd is not Harry. And she really didn't know Harry was married until… Until it was far too late. Unhappy memories stir yet again, complicated and unresolved.

She's a fool. An old fool, at that. Should very definitely know better. Unrequited love is all very well for young heroines in trashy romance novels. It's certainly not… appropriate… for women of a certain age who've somehow managed to blunder into a mire of difficulties and contradictions. It doesn't matter how handsome the hero is, or how much he needs saving from himself, the whole idea is farcical at best. Not to mention unprofessional.

But oh, what his smile does to her…

She's a fool. But Grace picks up her car-keys anyway.

-oOo-

"I'm sorry," he says, and he means it. He watches her watching him and he wishes that life was far simpler. The night breeze coming off the river is refreshing, helps keep the nauseous headache at bay, and for a moment he fancies he's standing out on her balcony again, the tangled sheets on the bed behind him still warm. Boyd is not a man for unnecessary words so he says nothing more and the accusing silence between them stretches uncomfortably.

Laura pushes her hands further into the pockets of her expensive designer coat. "Nobody wins, Peter. Not this way."

"There _is_ no other way, Laura."

She's silent. Until the moment when she bluntly says. "This is all very sudden. Is there something I should know?"

"No," Boyd replies simply. It's very far from accurate, but he sees no point in making a bad situation worse. For either of them. He shrugs, settles on a half-truth. "While I was in the hospital I realised something, that's all."

"I see. I presume that's why no-one called me?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that, too."

"Who is she?" she asks abruptly. "One of your colleagues? Doctor Gibson, perhaps?"

Boyd is genuinely taken aback. "Felix? God, no. Why do women always assume there's someone else?"

"Because there almost always is." She looks out over the river. "I don't suppose you'll tell me, but don't think for a moment I'm too stupid to see the obvious. Something happened, Peter. I don't know what and I don't know exactly when, but something happened and ever since…"

"_What would have happened if he'd fired before you'd ducked?"_ Grace's voice asks, deep in his skull. He lowers his head, looks at the dirty paving slabs under his feet. "Sometimes it takes something significant to happen for us to finally see what's been right in front of us all along."

"Meaning?"

"I have to go," he says, purposely avoiding the question. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Do you care?"

"Of course I do."

She softens a little. "Then, yes, I'm going to be okay. It was hardly the romance of the century, was it?"

He has to agree with the dry assessment, but there's still a measure of heavy regret in his heart as he walks stiffly away. A touch of cold apprehension, too, as he acknowledges to himself that he might just have made a terrible, terrible mistake. He certainly doesn't love Laura, but she offers him stability, simplicity. A pleasant, attractive companion to share his off-duty hours with. No arguments, no bickering, no complicated, barbed history. And it just might be that he's walking away from Laura to… absolutely nothing. It's done. Boyd is a free man. If he stays that way, well, he's used to being alone.

-oOo-

Really, Grace doesn't know whether to laugh or cry, so she does neither. At first she thought the house was merely dark because he'd retired to bed, but finally noticing that all the windows are firmly closed, even those on the upper floor, she's been forced to accept that he simply isn't home. And that being the case, other than his office there's only one other place he's likely to be. Once again, Grace feels like a complete fool. Of the very worst kind.

Of _course_ he's gone to stay with Laura. Boyd might not be keen on gushing sentimentality but – like most men – he's almost certainly not averse to the idea of being the absolute centre of an attractive woman's undivided attention for a few days. Well, let Laura Miller run round after him if she wants to. Let her run his errands and take the brunt of his growling displeasure as he recovers from the accident. It's better for them all that way. No question.

Grace is just descending the stone steps from the front door when a black cab pulls neatly into the kerb in front of the house. Not exactly an extraordinary phenomenon in London, admittedly, but she feels her pulse momentarily accelerate anyway. But it's not going to be Boyd. Why would it be?

It _is_ Boyd. No mistaking the tall, broad-shouldered figure clambering gingerly out of the back of the cab, the unusual ungainliness testament to his injuries. She watches as he exchanges a brief word with the driver, aware there's no point in trying to flee. He can't possibly have failed to notice her car, and there's no way she can leave his property without walking straight past him.

Even with the strong street lighting they are both cast in stark shadows and she doubts he can read her expression any better than she can read his as he straightens up and they look straight at each other.

With Boyd attack is often the best form of defence. Accordingly, she demands, "What the hell are you up to? Don't you _ever_ listen to what the doctors tell you?"

Not answering, he walks towards her as the cab pulls smoothly away again, and the closer he gets the better she can see him. The expression is calm and unreadable but the dark eyes are keen and intense, and they seem to be asking all sorts of questions Grace doesn't understand. Or doesn't dare to attempt to interpret correctly. He keeps walking, too; straight at her, easily bypassing the edge of the neutral space that exists between them. It flusters her to the point that she takes an involuntary step backwards, her mouth opening slightly but no words forming.

He still doesn't stop walking, steps boldly into her personal space, so close that she's forced to look up at him, suddenly absurdly aware of just how tall he is. "Boyd…?"

He finally comes to a standstill and she's damned certain he stands even straighter, maximising his considerable height advantage so he can pointedly gaze down at her as he says, "I had a message that it was up to me to sort things out. So that's what I've been doing. Sorting things out."

There's something he's not saying. Something important. Despite herself, she swallows. "With Laura?"

"With Laura. Let's just say I think I've been summarily removed from her Christmas card list."

"Why?"

"Why do you bloody think, Grace? Granted I didn't actually tell her I finally realised I was sleeping with the wrong woman – not in so many words – but even so…"

The words crash and clash round in her head, discordant and nonsensical. "You…? You're…? What?"

He looks faintly amused. "You heard me."

Grace attempts to rally. "Oh, I heard you, Boyd; I'm just not quite sure I understood you."

"No? Would you like me to make my position absolutely clear?"

Her heart is beating just a little too fast, but even so she's not sure he really means what she thinks he means. What she fervently hopes he means. Again, she swallows, mouth and throat both suddenly very dry. "I think I should remind you that you're suffering from a minor head injury, Boyd. I don't think it's very prudent to be – "

"Stop talking, Grace. Just for once, stop talking."

It can only be the long-awaited moment when he kisses her and she lets him. Grace knows it. And she's very quickly proved right as his lips gently and unerringly find hers.

-oOo-

She really does talk too damned much, but even though his grinding headache continues unabated, Boyd doesn't challenge her over it. Instead he lies at his ease on his big sofa and watches far more than he listens. He has highly selective hearing, a skill finely-honed over many years, and he picks up the important words as they appear, picks them up and stores them away ready for the test that doesn't come. Her ability to over-complicate things never fails to astonish him, even now, but he wisely keeps his dark thoughts on the matter to himself. If he weren't quite as bruised and battered he might be tempted to take decisive action to shut her up, but for now he is content just to watch her and to watch the hands on the clock as they slowly advance into the small hours of the morning.

Eventually, however, it is Grace who suddenly says, "You think I talk too much, don't you?"

He eyes her lazily. "I do."

She doesn't take offence, just counters with, "And I think you don't talk _enough_."

"I know."

She gets to her feet, starts to roam the room aimlessly, restlessly. "This is ridiculous, you know. Any thought of you and me. We're far too different. It won't work."

"Different isn't good or bad, it's just…"

"Different?" she says wryly.

"Mm." He watches the way she moves, the way the tension in her shoulders does nothing to disguise the natural flow of tempting feminine curves. He has a mind to diligently explore every single one of those curves before the sun rises over the city, cuts and bruises be damned.

"So?"

"'So?'" Boyd echoes. He stretches languidly, ignores the resulting twinges of pain. "So, I guess we just do what everyone else does. We stumble along trying to find the road that's right for us and we try not to tempt fate by second-guessing ourselves."

She gazes at him with a clear touch of amusement. "Does that actually mean something, or did it just sound good in your head?"

"The latter, probably," Boyd admits. He can just about detect the faintest trace of her perfume in the air, a fierce temptation. But she's watching him expectantly so he continues, "Look, Grace, I'm not going to say things I don't mean and I'm not going to make promises I can't keep, but I think we both know that it's bloody pointless to deny that there hasn't always been _something_ between us. And I think it's about time we tried to find out exactly what that something is. Don't you agree?"

"That's actually quite insightful."

He can't help grinning. "For me, you mean?"

Her gaze is steady and contemplative. "You're not my type, you know."

He appreciates the thorns. So beautifully characteristic of their entire relationship. "That's all right. You're not my type, either."

"I think it's time we went to bed." Grace raises her eyebrows. "After all, the doctor did say you weren't to be left alone overnight."

He's more than happy to play along. "She did."

"You really should start listening to what doctors have to say, you know."

"Should I."

She nods solemnly. "You should."

Boyd sits up carefully, inevitably stirring all the aches and pains that have taken hold throughout his entire body. He could probably find the reserves to fight with her if he wanted to. But he doesn't want to. "All right, Doctor. I know when I'm beaten; you win."

She extends a hand down to him and he takes it gravely. Grace couldn't bodily haul him to his feet if she tried, but he grants her the illusion. It amuses him. Vertical, he looks down at her again. She looks deceptively fragile for a woman who's never been afraid to confront the full force of his anger, his blistering impatience. But no, she's not the easy option. Never has been, never will be. But Boyd is very used to his life not being easy.

"Boyd?"

He realises she is regarding him with a hint of very real mischief. One that seems more than a touch incongruous at first but rapidly engages every last bit of his masculine interest. Still, he doesn't trust that look for a moment. He studies her lips, thinks about kissing them until she fulfils that exciting promise of mischief and misbehaviour. "Grace."

The voice is solemn, the tempting lips rather less so. "Do I need to promise to be gentle with you…?"

_- the end -_


End file.
